


It's Called Amistad In Spanish

by AlmesivaMoonshadow



Category: Far Cry, Far Cry 3
Genre: Absent Parents, Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Blood and Torture, Childhood Memories, Crimes & Criminals, Dark Comedy, Depression, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Father Figures, Fluff and Angst, Foreign Language, Heavy Angst, Hostage Situations, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, Lima Syndrome, Lovestarved, Mental Illness, Mind Games, Obsessive Behavior, Organized Crime, Orphans, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, References to Illness, Sibling Incest, Slave Trafficking, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Underage - Freeform, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Yandere, musings, one shots, teeth pulling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 22:12:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15783135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmesivaMoonshadow/pseuds/AlmesivaMoonshadow
Summary: Four separate occasions someone lied to Vaas about loving him and four separate occasions he found himself caring less and less.





	It's Called Amistad In Spanish

c   i   t   r   a

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

When Citra confessed her affections for him - it was like seeing the light for the first time.  
Painful, yes - a whiplash - a tremendous sort of sensation - anguish and awe all at once.  
A sort of addictive burn - it hurt - but he didn't mind the sudden swell of emotions.  
He wanted more - needed more - starved for everything from praise to company.  
Acknowledgment too - being an outsider among their own people - the tribe.  
Like a sort of stray, homeless dog that you pity too much to turn away.  
But - at the same time don't want anywhere near your own homestead either.  
No matter how much it fights, barks, bites, rolls around in the dust for you - for your attention.

 

 

 

That was Vaas.

 

 

 

So, when those three small words - so simple yet effective rolled from his sister's lips for the first time, unheard and inexperienced before in the absence of their parents - both of them merely children playing around underneath the canopies of the palm trees mid-summer, the salty summer breeze filling their nostrils, Vaas knew there and then that he would kill for her - die for her - die for the sensation he felt then - the sensation of being wanted, needed, precious to someone - anyone - doesn't matter in what context - back then, it was easy to blur the lines between familiar fondness, a crush and the first signs of romantic affections yet undeveloped - it didn't matter - love was merely love - so, for years, he did everything he's been asked of her, fought whoever slighted her, hunted for her, kept her warm, protected her, looked after her - not because she couldn't do any of those things on her own, because he wanted to spare her any anguish and any exertion of any kind from even the most mundane and menial of task - he was her champion - her perfect warrior, as she affectionately referred to him - a flush of pride he felt could last forever, like a sort of incredible high of overwhelming happiness brought about through the various concoctions of herbs and potions mixed together by the skillful hands of a Rakyat witch-doctor or midwife and their ancient knowledge - except, love like that makes you weak - at least, that's what she told him after putting him in the very state of dazed misery and then crashing him down like a wounded hawk. She needed him potent. Bloodthirsty. Powerful. Not soft. Not - pathetic and miserably co-dependent and overly-attached as he was. The very term she used to describe him. She couldn't let her child be fathered by such a creature. By a domesticated animal she herself tamed. Contradictory. Oxymoron. He never understood. It played with his mind. Drove him a state of desperation.

 

 

_-"Pero, qué paso con nosotros!? Qué cambio!? Me dijiste qué me amas!"-_

 

 

He questioned in a state of semi-rage, semi-bewilderment.  
Speaking Spanish as he always did, something she never minded before.  
Their fallout now nearly imminent, though - if nothing else, Vaas wanted closure - answers.  
She was Queen of all the Rakyat - not his loving sibling anymore - felt like his usefulness was obsolete.  
She's outgrew the need for an over-glorified lackey and bodyguard distracting her from her birthright.  
She outgrew the son of foreigners and outsiders when she should focus on her own kindred.  
To the elders, he was just someone appropriating their culture.  
Not someone who was ever actually a part of it.  
Not with a surname like Montenegro.

 

 

 

_-"Not anymore - and don't speak that language in my presence ever again. It insults me."-_

 

 

 

Citra spoke with a tone of only partially closeted disgust. dismissing him with a haughty wave of her hand.  
Always a little on the proud side - a side he admired and fed into - now used against him.  
He honed and sharpened a blade all these years, only to have it stab him through.  
Escorted out from their camp and into the jungle like an intruder.  
Under arms, by tribesmen too afraid to touch him.  
So Vaas left, never to return.

 

 

 

His sister never once tried to stop him - and that hurt more then he'd like to acknowledge.

 

 

 

 

h    o    y    t

* * *

 

 

 

 

Living without a clan - a country - roots - a people wholly your own wasn't easy.  
And if anything, he claimed to know that better then anyone else.  
He claimed to have been there - done that - over and over again for ages.  
Hoyt Volker, with the airs of a colonizer through and through struck a nail in him.  
And yes - he had countless stories and anecdotes Vaas would've otherwise written off as bullshit.  
Traveling, every port from Indochina to Africa where he was originally from - a pirate's life in ever sense of the way.  
His new, well, friend, aquitance, whatever the fuck he was - was quite oddly sympathetic towards him.  
Not in the pitiful, saccharine, annoying sort of way either - oh no, there was experience there.  
Hoyt had arrived to the island Vaas called his home with a virtual armada of ships and boats.  
His company made up from rag-tag thugs, ruffians and bandits from all over the world.  
From the Americas, picked up along the way from Bangkok, from Somalia - everywhere.  
Places Vaas has never even heard of, lest imagine could produce such a force.  
Information of the sort was rather scarce while living with the Rakyat.

 

 

 

Being by Citra's side, through - what other knowledge did he need other then that he loved her - none, he felt.

 

 

 

But, Volker - he presented him with movies, comics, books, magazines, music, sweets, toys, jewelry - a treasure trove of curiosities - everything and anything to paint a better picture of the outside world he was never interested in so far because he was convinced he had everything he needed already and that he would never lack for anything because the very earth they lived on would provide all the necessities, as their shamans would so often repeat huddled next to the fireplace at night - and Vaas was dazed - speechless - for the first time after leaving Citra and the tribe - he felt important again - important enough for someone to shower him with things he would've never acquired a taste for otherwise - his most favorite of all of these wonders, the thing Hoyt assured him would take away the pain was the white, pasted powder that procured a curious, addictive itch in his nostrils - and of course, Vaas was no stranger to the idea of drugs - The Rakyat had a penchant for hallucinogenics, herbal teas, chewing leaves and native berries a thousand years before the first ship under Hoyt's command ever landed on this island - but, it was the reasoning behind his strange new friend offering him this token of goodwill - Hoyt claimed it was to ease the anguish - to make him forget - something along the lines of a son of an abusive father relating to the brother of a neglectful sister. Didn't quite catch it entirely. But, it didn't matter - this was the first person who's offered him any sort of comfort, empathy or relief ever since he huddled out from underneath the protective shadow of the wild like a wounded animal and into the embrace of the occupied, open shoreline to discover these strange people were already building residence in and it nearly made him sob - not that he ever would, from sheer cocksure, stubborn pride, but still. He was still what he was. He was nobody's lapdog.

 

 

 

_-"It's 'cos I care, kid. Here, take it! It's on the house! Think of it as payment in advance. We'll work out the rest later."-_

 

 

 

Hoyt assured him with a borderline congratulatory pat on the back and it all felt so easy, so clear.  
Before he knew, he was in the man's employ and it was almost as if he had a sense of purpose again.  
A sense of belonging - imagining Volker as a sort of father figure he never actually had before.  
Venerating him for a tid-bit - the archetype of a man landing here from some far off land.  
Free of all duties - the strangling noose of Citra's customs - her expectations.  
Part of him wanting to embrace the man tightly and call him _his hermano._  
But, something's changed - the weirdly attentive, curious stranger turned cold.  
After that one extra packet of yayo it's almost as if Vaas was indebted without knowing it.  
He wasn't sure what happened or when it exactly happened but his boss just became, well, his boss.  
And any sort of attempts at small-talk, chatter or bonding was met with a sharp, unimpressed kind of disapproval.

 

 

 

This time around, Hoyt Volker eerily reminded him of Citra the last few years they were together;

Uncomfortable, shrill, demanding, cruel, difficult and overly domineering.

 

 

 

_-"The fuck you doing? Get back to work, Vaas! You standing there is losing me money! Chop-chop, lets go!"-_

 

 

Hoyt angrily shouted him down, his South African accent rougher then ever before, a sheer contrast from what he was in the very beginning when he caught him borderline dissociating by the beach while the pirates were loading in freshly-arrived cargo from one of the cruisers up ahead, briefly, for a moment, contemplating drowning himself there and then only to snap back into reality and realize that he was given an island, authority, weapons, an indefinite stash of hookers, slaves, American cinema, Disney cartoons, the newest pieces of technology he could tinker around with, booze, tobacco, drugs, the liberty to do most anything he wanted lest he harm their mutual business endeavors, the chance to terrorize the natives who previously rejected him - but nothing he actually wanted.

 

 

 

b    u    c    k

* * *

 

 

 

He was always a favorite.  
A kind of a living exception to most things.  
Sort of an anomaly when it came to all the rules Hoyt had in place.  
A crack within the structure of their system - lazy, disinterested, unmotivated and sloppy.  
But, nonetheless, constantly forgiven and let loose with a mere slap or two on the damn wrists.  
All while Vaas was often scorned, reprimanded and scolded for the smallest transgressions imaginable.  
And yes, in a sense, he hated Buck for that - felt jealous and downright denied of something because of it.  
Left out - not entirely oblivious to the fact that his boss and his number one hitman shared a history.  
That they've been through a lot together - crossed paths long before ever crossing his very own.  
That they spoke like brothers, comrades, confidantes while he was just a - what exactly?  
That they were closer in age and as a result, closer to relate, click in some odd way.  
And in some odd way Vaas neither knew how and partially didn't want to at this point.  
Making him feel like an errant, spoiled child sitting at the grown-ups table.  
Trying to reach up only to be pushed back down and cut to size as ever before.

 

 

 

What did this Buck person have that he didn't?

 

 

 

Well for one, apparently that nonchalant, irritating cool of his. He slacked off. He was nearly always caught between the line of being drunk and barely sobering up. Rarely ever leaving the makeshift shack he's chosen for himself as a domain nearly immediately upon arriving. Procrastinating his work. Walking around in booty-shorts which, apparently, he seldom ever changed or washed. Killing when he wanted to kill. Sleeping when he wanted to sleep. Focusing mainly on whatever he was busy doing couped up in that murder trap of his. Probably fucking and sodomizing runaway slaves and setting up animal traps for same said slaves. Rambling on about whatever obscure bullshit he was high on right now - Chinese emperors and their motherfuckin' lost tresure boats buried beneath the ocean. But, the peculiar thing was - Hoyt didn't seem to mind any of this, at least not as openly and as brashly as he minded, well - a lot of basically everything Vaas indulged in on his own turf. In fact, bizarrely, in a case yet not witnessed by Vaas before - he seemed to find it amusing at best. Bambi, as Vaas later discovered was his actual name - reeked, was overgrown in hair, was a fairly uncomfortable piece of shit, had a tendency to come unto nearly everything that moved, which wasn't a surprise with their company, but regardless, he had Hoyt's partial respect where Vaas didn't. So, of course he sulked internally. If anything, because his pride was wounded. Because something primal, ancient, all too familiar, feral, angry, unquenchable and borderline Rakyat in nature re-awakened deep inside of him when they were having a smoke break - just the three of them - away from all the ruckus and commotion after a group of workers and sailors alongside the captain himself from an international cruise ship were captured for ransom, debating on contacting the right people in the right places necessary to get as much money out of this little endeavor as humanly possible. Hoyt did something that irked him.He asked him to step to the side so he could talk to Buck more privately, cigar in hand.

 

 

 

Why?  
Wasn't he part of this motherfucker?  
Wasn't he good enough to hear what was being said?  
Wasn't he allowed to be updated on all the intel between them?  
Worst of all, he wasn't even entirely dismissed - he was told to wait on the sidelines.

 

 

Like some sort of, _what?_ \- well trained, obedient dog on a short leash - fuck, man?

At that point he was pissed, but couldn't show it - huffing his own cigarette with his back turned to them.

 

 

 

The entire ocean behind him as they prattled on privately - he felt like even the water was judging him.

Finding him lacking.

 

 

 

 

_-"Shit. Y'know what they say mate? A child who isn't embraced by the village will burn it down to feel it's warmth. Aye. An African proverb that one. Found it in one of those traveler's handbooks, you dig? Real fitting, I'd say."-_

 

 

 

Buck approached him slowly and languidly after Hoyt finished giving him instructions and departed with his personal armed guards without even giving Vaas a mere nod of acknowledgement or common courtesy as he did - as if he wasn't there in the first place - invisible and meaningless - leaving Crocodile Dundee sauntering towards him with something of a mocking grin that sent a wave of tangible irritation straight down the surface of Vaas' scalp who was ready to punch his lights out now that they were all alone. He didn't like to be spoken to like an idiot. Least of all in terms and metaphors he didn't understand. That shit felt like a thinly veiled insult - especially coming from this piece of shit.

 

 

_-"Fuck you, amigo! What's it to you, huh!? Playing tough shit 'cos you're bosses lil' bitch, huh?"-_

 

 

 

Vaas retorted ready to have a go at it - not even caring who hears or sees him at this point, feeling like a life-time worth of rage was accumulating in his fist at this point, ready to burst out at any given moment and land right in the middle of this asshole's mug.

 

 

 

_-"Aw, - you still don't get it, do you? You think this is some family-friendly, Hallmark-card charity work we're conducting here, don'cha? That Hoyt's a big mother goose and that we're all his ducklings competing for his attention or something and that I just stole your spotlight back there."-_

 

 

Buck shot back with a feigned, hollow sort of sweetness and a smile comprised of bared teeth and no actual warmth or emotion, like a father taunting a child with a cold, rough edge that made Vaas instantly turn to leave before he kills the man on the spot and lands himself into even more disfavor with Hoyt over it, feeling the prickle of ridicule on his skin and remembering Citra once again, against his will or better judgment - wishing he didn't leave her and the tribe without firstly grabbing her by her two-faced, scheming head and bashing her skull against the mossy, overgrown rocks of the pillared temple until her brain becomes nothing but a meaty, moist, shapeless putty in his hands. But, he merely left without evening the score. The same way he was leaving now. Again.

 

 

_-"Oi! Don't be like that! If it means that much, mate - I love ya with all my heart! Up the bloody arse!"-_

 

 

Buck shouted after him, grabbing his own crotch for extra emphasis as to what he really meant - typical.  
Vaas could do nothing else but put up his middle finger, curse him off and keep walking.

 

 

 

j    a    s    o   n

* * *

 

 

 

_-"Jason, Jason, Jason - it's called amistad, in Spanish. The word for friendship. Now, pronounce it, with special emphasis - Aaaa - say Aaaah! Open your mouth, a little wider. Wider!"-_

 

 

 

 

Vaas instructed patiently, with a crooked, livid smile, feeling like a child unwrapping his Christmas presents to discover his favorite toys inside, tinkering with a heavy, iron monkey-wrench against his captive's forcibly streched mouth pulled apart by a crude strapped on contraption on the American's lips with a leather belt, rending the drooling, distressed Brody boy unable to speak - irony of all ironies - they've been playing this game of chicken for quite some time now, to the point where Montenegro forgot for how long exactly - he captures him - Jason escapes - he ambushes him out in the jungle or some abandoned outpost - Jason escapes once again - he catches his little girlfriend or one of his pussy-ass friends to lure him in with live-bait lest Hoyt comes down here and shout his ears off - Jason comes in, liberates them and leaves - in a sense, Vaas hasn't been this excited about playing a round of hide and seek ever since those first days with Citra, climbing around the steep, ancient steps of their temples deep in the heart of the jungle, pretending to be chieftains of old, without a care in the world - he was teaching her Spanish too, obviously, without the torture preps in place - and _amistad_ must've been one of the first terms Vaas recalls passing unto her while she herself was attempting to have him learn the tongue of the Rakyat behind the elders back who didn't approve of an outsider appropriating their sacred knowledge even further and diluting it's importance. Yes, _The Amistad_. Supposedly, the Argentinian merchant-ship his father arrived on here with back in the 80's. That's all he knew about him other that he was a pirate, a full-blooded, dark-haired Spaniard through and through, a drug-runner, a lowlife a vagabond and a no good-thug who impregnated an honest woman of the tribe and left never to be heard from again. That's at least what the people in the tribe used to say. Whatever the truth may be, the memory of that vessel remained alongside the obscure knowledge that Argentinian wine is in fact, the very best. A topic Vaas felt extremely passionate about to this very day and he didn't fail to remind everyone and anyone about it.

 

 

 

_-"Y'know, hermano, I really, really, really think your heart isn't entirely invested in our little language lessons. How unpolite is that, huh? I'm here trying and trying and you couldn't give less of a fuck. Do I have to take out another one of those, whatever you call them, out of your mouth? 'Cos those ain't teeth. They're like a line of baby rabbit poop. Like, really small and tiny. And it stinks - ay co ño!"-_

 

 

 

Vaas teased clanking his large metal tool against the edge of Jason's exposed teeth.  
He could've very easily bashed them but didn't have the heart to permanently maim that jaw.  
Wrinkling his nose at the odor of Snowhite's bad breath - months spent in the jungle can do that to a man.  
Coaxing an enraged bust of pain out of him - drool and blood and an attempt to curse him out.  
He's already pulled out two teeth from back after Brody refused to play his games.  
Then he gagged him and downright ignored the fact he couldn't speak.  
Couldn't try and speak Spanish even if he truly wanted to.  
Why not mess with him a bit when Jason's messed with him enough so far.  
Tied to a chair, unable to run and move, this could all very easily end for good.  
All Jason Brody had to do is say one measly line to satisfy Vaas' sick little personal inside joke.

 

 

And it could all end here and now and nobody needed to suffer - too much, that is.

 

 

 

_-"Fuck you."-_

 

 

Jason managed weakly once Vaas finally pulled off the chained muzzle, his mouth numb, exhausted and in pain, obviously - but still very much defiant, stubborn and cocksure despite all the cavities, scratches and raw wounds - Vaas both loathed and loved that about his most favorite hostage of all - how he was borderline suicidally thickheaded and just couldn't motherfucking do as he was told to save his own hide and seeing him struggle not to break right now was almost therapeutic for Montenegro, in a very morbidly comedic fashion.

 

 

_-"No, fuck **you** , amigo!"-_

 

 

Vaas retorted angrily, waggling his finger in front of Snowhite's face as a sort of a vague threat.

 

 

_-"Fuck you!"-_

 

 

Jason shot back almost instantly, louder this time, nearly spitting into his face - wow, the absolute nerve.

 

 

_-"This could all be over if you just said it. Just say it, Snowhite. I know you can. And say it like you mean it, amigo. Really, really mean it."-_

 

 

 

Vaas got really close then, either side of his hands firmly pressed against the wooden chair Jason was strapped into, leaning in curiously - the look the American gave him almost disgusted, confused, uneasy at the peculiar request - sure, he's asked for weirder things of his hostages for the shits and giggles here to amuse both him and his men in equal measure - not for any particular reason other then the fact that he could and that Hoyt gave him the explicit authority to almost whatever he wanted over the years like the semi-absentee authority figure that he was, throwing him the occasional crumb of approval from above and only occasionally checking up on him to make sure he hasn't majorly messed something up, something he never much did with the likes of Bambi, but hey, water under the bridge - it was about humiliating his prisoners, conditioning them, seeing them squirm, making them angry, sad, hateful, afraid - so, so very afraid - find out their weakness and use it against them - he liked the emotional response, whether negative or positive - it was his lifeblood - he felt then that even wrath was better then nothing at all - even the darkest, meanest, most terrible emotion better then sheer nihilism - Citra taught him that, if nothing else, even Hoyt himself, even Buck - yet and here they were - his sister was inking this white motherfucker when she and the tribe flat-out rejected to do the same form him under the weak excuse that he didn't deserve his stripes yet - that he was an outsider and as such could never fully qualify to take part in their most holy of customs only to turn him away afterwards. But this pussy-ass bitch could for some reason? Really? He came here to party, do the yayo, waste daddy's money and fuck bitches and now, suddenly, he was good enough for the Tatau out of nowhere when it took Vaas years and years to bust his for only half of the reward, respect and recognition? They couldn't ink the son of one of their own tribeswomen under the excuse that he wasn't Rakyat enough, but they could ink the translucent wonder whitebread over here? The fucking indignity! Vaas wanted to hear him say it. Openly. With articulation. The words Citra and everyone else denied him for so long. He had the camera set and ready to record this and immortalize it for future playback. For future reminders. Again and again.

 

 

If he couldn't have them willingly, he'll squeeze them out of people by force - the confessions of love.  
Cocking the firearm and pushing it against his forehead as a final warning.  
He wanted to kill him.  
Kill him.  
Kill.

 

 

 

_-"Te Quiero, Vaas."-_

 

 

 

Jason managed with a tired, unimpressed, irritated sigh.  
Undaunted by the gun, the treats, his situation or anything else.  
A broken, heavy sort of diluted Spanish falling from his bloodied, torn lips.  
Jason seemed more gloomy then anything else, given his profoundly dangerous circumstance.  
Vaas knew it was merely a lie, something he said to finally get him off his goddamn back already.  
Just a weird request from a weird captor in a weird place in a really weird moment in time - that's all.  
Before he finds a way out of the trap he was in once more and makes yet another run for the jungle.  
Leaving half of the island's population to chase after him and the bounty on his head.  
Jason loved Citra, his meat-fuck of a dead brother, the other younger one.  
His cute little girlfriend, his friends, himself, the hunger.  
The high of the wild, native pussy - but not him in any capacity.

 

 

 

But even so, Vaas didn't mind - and he decided to keep his teeth as souvenirs.

**Author's Note:**

> Pero, qué paso con nosotros!? Qué cambio!? Me dijiste qué me amas! -  
> (But, what happened with \ to us!? What changed!? You told me you loved me!)
> 
> Coño -  
> ("Cunt" can be used frequently in place of "damn", "shit", and "fuck" )
> 
> Te Quiero, Vaas -  
> (I love you, Vaas)
> 
> Amistad -  
> (Friendship)


End file.
